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I’m at my pal Maribel’s birthday and it’s time to pass around a package full of colorful toys. It’s like musical chairs, except instead of not having a place to sit when the music stops, you go home with a keepsake.
Down a grassy hill. Giggling maniacally.
For the crime of delicious witchcraft, I sentence this marshmallow to burn at the stick.
My pal Julia called it a slackline. I call it a grueling test of my sense of balance and failing that, my pain threshold.
What’s the real treasure at the end of the rainbow? Me, apparently.
